Birdbrain

Another day, another nest. The avian real estate boom continues.

This nest is located on the porch about a meter from our main entrance--the busiest spot a birdbrain could have picked. Every time someone arrives, the robin mom-to-be swoops past at head height. It's a horror movie.

I like nature as much as the next person, but enough with the gushing over baby birds: I was peeved to find this nest emerging from the top tier of my planter, into which I had JUST, FINALLY, stuck some petunias. You can barely see a squished sprig of green struggling to grow out from under the muddy twigs. The power of plant life is nothing short of awesome (see my earlier post on weed survival), but smart money is on the birds here.

 

Still, this.

Letting nature take its course.

Art/Life the Kate way

Kate comes bearing art to a reading/celebration in her honour.

My friend of old radiated joy and wonder that day, as she does, over and over, through her poetry. Experience the force field yourself by viewing this video: Kate Marshall Flaherty reciting her poem "Far Away" (music by Mark Korven).

More about Kate and her work can be found here.

Growing Food: Then and Now

 

Attempting to grow food, I should say. There are always surprises--thwarted plans, the odd disaster wrought by weather or animals.

This year, self-made disaster looms. In the spring we decided to try something called soil solarization to address the blighted tomatoes of recent years. Tomatoes planted in certain areas of the garden would thrive at first and later wilt. They looked as though they needed more water, but water didn't help. We formed a loose theory (thanks, Google!) that bacteria in the soil were responsible for the blight. Solarization--sealing the earth with clear plastic tarp, allowing bacteria-killing heat to build--would solve the problem, only we must have done it badly. We started late, so the plastic wasn't left in place long enough. Weeds (which we were supposed to remove first, but who knew? I thought they'd suffocate) yellowed deceptively while adapting to their outdoor terrarium, muscling their way toward gaps in the sheeting. It was a big overgrown mess when we finally pulled the plastic away.

Tim wanted to roto-till the weeds into oblivion, but I had just read an article on the excellent Nourish Project site that claimed roto-tilling harms the soil--instead, "lasagna gardening" is the way to go. No problem: all we had to do was cover the dirt with layers of newspaper, compost, straw, and cardboard, which sounded straightforward and eco-friendly. Layers, no digging, materials at hand put to good use. And it goes without saying that I make a mean lasagna, so problem solved, right?

Well, the cardboard and newspapers blew around the yard despite our watering them. The patchwork of flattened boxes, now anchored with fence posts and logs, many decorated with colourful corporate logos, lent a warehouse aesthetic to our patch of paradise. It was, in my mother-in-law's oft-used phrase, a dog's breakfast. Apparently I missed the Part 2 Lasagna Garden post, which contained troubleshooting instructions that would have been handy to have. 

Ultimately, Tim dumped piles of grass clippings over the plot, opting for camouflage. He refrained from outright blaming me, while clearly wishing for a quick gas-powered solution. One of us likes to plant seeds in straight lines using string and sticks and neat labels; one of us can't manage anything more than scattering--guess who is who? After much digging, I was able to clear small strips and plant tomatoes and basil, but most of the garden will lie fallow this year. There will be no squash, corn, sunflowers, or peppers, and the whole is such a mess that I can't bear to post a picture. Maybe later. 

What we have is still going to be great: two small raised beds planted by the kids, 16 tomatoes in the ground, and several more in containers. If no blight strikes, my crap methods will be vindicated.

I meant to post these pictures, taken toward the end of May, before now. 

          Then:

new pear tree, birthday gift for Tim

garlic awakening

child planters--carrots, mesclun, two kinds of beans

beginnings (and resurgence of small strawberry patch on right)

rhubarb I haven't killed yet--yes, you can kill it

future strawberries

various (unlabelled, naturally) tomatoes grown from seed

apple tree

          Now:

New Arrivals

This was the situation a few days ago, but today the nest is empty, like the old nest on the left. Another dwelling, moss-covered, hangs from a beam not far away. Every year robins build homes in the eaves, apparently not minding slamming doors and motion-detector lights tripped by six people coming and going at all hours. The perfect location, location, location, and no cats: prime avian real estate here, the spring market heating up.  

Walking by the River on Father's Day

Otonabee River

This photo is slightly fraudulent, because it was taken late last summer, but close enough. Today, walking the dog on the trail that traces the Otonabee River, I forgot to bring a camera. By the way, Otonabee is pronounced uh-TAWN-a-bee. When I first moved here, I said ott-ta-NAW-bee on more than one occasion, offending local ears.

Fun Can-Lit fact for non-Canadian readers: the Otonabee figures heavily in the writing of sisters Catherine Parr Traill and Susanna Moodie and their brother Samuel Strickland, English settlers who chronicled life in 19th-century Upper Canada. Parr Traill, a naturalist, catalogued native plants and their uses, among other works. Today, surrounded by the burgeoning trees, shrubs and flowers of June, I wished for a copy of her Canadian Wild Flowers to help me identify some of them.
  
My walk was short, squeezed between garden chores and the production of a fully homemade Father's Day dinner that exceeded all expectations, if I do say so myself.* Our garden/weedriot demands attention, but being so far behind this early in the season somehow makes it easier to take off--escape to the trail once again.

What I experienced while escaping:
--drama overhead--smoky rolling clouds, threatening a return to the morning's rainfall, against a clear blue sky.
--cattails, milkweed, ferns, daisies, devil's paintbrush and apple trees loaded with tiny fruit; a shock of purple-white Iris sprouting in the midst of tall grasses--planted by someone?
--birds darting from tree to tree, so loud that they penetrated my headphones (why the hell was I wearing them, you might well ask).
--a freshly dug garden plot rigged with a pump and water line to the river.
--two turtles, big and little, sunning on a stump jutting from the lagoon by Sawyers Creek Bridge. Given that it's Father's Day, allow me some anthropomorphism here: they were a dad and baby turtle; I feel it.
--an actual dad with two small children carrying miniature fishing rods; they moved toward the bridge in slow motion, a wise strategy for any enterprise involving toddlers and fish hooks. Seeing them called to mind memories of my own slow-mo travels with children (years, gone so quickly!) and I picked up my pace.
--a teenager standing on a paddle boat beneath the bridge, fishing, ignoring all passersby.
--a man standing on a board floating down the river, paddling, admirably balanced.
--bikers, including a woman who stopped to interact with the dog (warning bell in my head: crazed animal lover, possible need to escape from my escape). Thus began a prolonged chat as she walked her bike alongside me, unbidden; mentioned a neighbour, and I nodded in recognition; ranged in her discourse from dog breeds to weather to the threat of grubs to grass; and when finally she inquired about the DOG'S name, I told her, and then offered MINE, and she exclaimed in embarrassment: she had thought I was someone else. I said that I thought she was just extremely friendly (polite lie). She rode off, leaving the dog and me in peace, whereupon I had just enough trail left to think with gratitude about fathers, especially my father and my husband, who have been such a gift in the lives of their children.

*At least, no food complaints were lodged within my earshot, perhaps because the cooking was shared--two kids barbecuing, one kid sauteeing mushrooms and overseeing the spinach and mashed potatoes, the last not cooking exactly, but hanging around trying to steal lemon squares before dinner. They did a great job making the traditional breakfast in bed for their father this morning, too--everyone pitched in.

Why is there antifreeze in my kitchen?

A found poem:

coconut

icing sugar, sugar

water

propylene glycol

salt, sulphites

If I were hearing the words instead of reading them on a food label, I'd feel a pulse of pleasure over the syncopation in icing sugar, sugar (which no doubt has a name--one of those confusing poetic devices involving repeated words). The juxtaposition of sugar and water would recall high school science lab with its beakers full of mystery solutions, or maybe harken further back to the days when mothers handed their kids bottles of sugar water to shut them up. And that final line, with its soft hiss of alliteration: salt, sulphites. A sigh seeded with a suggestion: You, preserved.

Let's skip the over the sulphites and excess sugar and go straight to the propylene glycol. Why is there antifreeze in my kitchen? I only wanted to make a batch of granola. Silly me. I let another (non-label-reading) person do the shopping and this adulterated product landed in the baking drawer. I noticed the label after the fact.

Propylene glycol is the active ingredient in antifreeze and yummy products such as paint, dog food, cosmetics, brake fluid and aircraft de-icer. Which brings us back to antifreeze. Real food advocates decry this additive, and even pop culture has noticed: check out the Dr. Oz website, for example. Regulators appear to believe that propylene glycol is safe at approved levels. It's allowed in North American food processing as a stabilizer, humectant, solvent, and other uses that are difficult to imagine alongside food. The Europeans are the holdouts, as ever: the EU has not given blanket approval, but regulates the use of propylene glycol in food through a specific directive.

This link to a major manufacturer's sales literature might have, but didn't actually, answer my question: why is there antifreeze in the coconut I just used in baking? Here's a short excerpt that describes our additive precisely:

Dow PG USP/EP is a clear, colorless, practically odorless, slightly viscous, water-soluble and hygroscopic liquid. It is synthesized from hydrocarbon raw materials. 

Materials of plant or animal origin, genetically modified organisms, solvents, catalysts, additives or stabilizers are not used in the manufacturing process or added to the final product.

Anybody find a poem in this? 

Cycling Plans

I was going to write about food again, since everyone needs to eat and I have new Unprocessed Project creations to share, but then I saw this gizmo on my way to a much-needed yoga class earlier today. Isn't it lovely?

Wait, what is it?

This, my friends, is a public DIY bike repair stand, newly installed outside the Trent University Athletic Centre. Note the ample free bike parking, too. Anyone who has paid more than her fair share for Trent AC parking tickets at $20 a pop should consider biking.

Throughout May the good folks at Peterborough Moves are running a "transportation competition and campaign" called Workplace Shifting Gears, a challenge to walk, cycle or take public transit instead of driving to work. I signed up last week for my employer, promising to cycle-commute at least twice a week. Except, hmm. That may not have been wise, seeing as a) it's far and hilly--about 25 km; b) my bike is ancient and clunky and still in winter storage; and c) I'm ancient and clunky and still in winter storage. But even if I manage a few shorter trips around town, I can log them on the Shifting Gears site and reap untold physical and mental benefits. 

When we lived in Toronto, I commuted by bike except for the extremely pregnant months. I find it therapeutic to jump from work into rush-hour traffic, dodging all the assholes uptight drivers racing home. In fact, a guy in a black convertible BMW with the top down--a detail that meant he could see me--once clipped my bike as we drove together along a narrow downtown street. His side mirror hit my handlebars. I stayed upright and screamed abuse at him (uncharacteristically: it was the adrenaline screaming). The best Rx for bike/car rage? More yoga, NOW! when it is available to me. But we don't have anything like Toronto traffic here in the hinterlands, and people are supernice, and I'm a safety-conscious rider who signals and everything, so no worries. 

Other than being out of shape. I'll let you know if I totally humiliate myself when I take a test ride this weekend.

Here are a few more shots of the apparatus. Not that I'm handy, but it's a comfort to know that you can use the pump and these other thingies should the need arise. The Shifting Gears initiative also includes free bike repair classes. (Get the themes here? Free. Public. For the good of all.)

B!KE, the non-profit Peterborough Community Cycling Club, has brought us this sublimely blue Fixit station and three others just like it, strategically located around the city. Find more details here.